


Anaphase

by noussommeslessquelettes



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noussommeslessquelettes/pseuds/noussommeslessquelettes
Summary: Bakura learns about dancing and cellular reproduction.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (This fic was originally written as an ask answer on my Tumblr)
> 
> Anonymous asked: do you ever think about marik and bakura accidentally getting caught in some cliche romantic moment like swaying together to a slow song or something and marik just talking the whole way through like nothing is out of place while bakura's just mentally screaming and trying to act natural
> 
> Answer: Literally all the goddamn time
> 
> I could see something like that probably happening at like a fancy banquet, something Marik gets invited to for work. He brings Bakura along as his plus one, because he’s rainchecked on too many work functions, and if he’s gonna have to spend all night with a bunch of his dusty old coworkers like hell he’s gonna go it alone. He bribes Bakura with a free steak dinner that he can get without having to hear Marik bitch about how awful the scent of cooking meat is.
> 
> After dinner, Bakura’s a pissy ass and wants to leave, so he starts looking for Marik, who ran off somewhere.

Bakura frowned, scanning the room of snooty old scholars for any sign of his roommate. Marik had promised to leave soon after dessert, but now, hours after the plates had been cleared, Marik was still hiding somewhere among the crowd, probably talking the ear off some ancient dignitary about the trade relations of Ancient Egypt, or something equally boring.

Finally, Bakura caught a glimpse of Marik across the room. He slipped through the crowd, eventually making his way to where Marik engaged in animated discussion with a woman who looked about as old as Bakura was. Without slowing down, Bakura grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the woman. After momentarily resisting, Marik recognised him, and followed Bakura until he stopped a few seconds later. Bakura turned around, ready to demand that Marik uphold his end of their deal, but the words escaped him as Marik pulled him into an odd embrace, lacing his fingers in Bakura’s one hand, and putting his hand on Bakura’s opposite hip.

Bakura tensed at the sensation, eyes widening. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Marik gave him a befuddled expression. “You pulled me onto the dance floor; I assumed that meant you wanted to dance.”

“I—what? No I don’t want to dance, I want to talk.” Bakura’s feet awkwardly stumbled opposite Marik’s fluid steps.

“We can do both at the same time. Unless, of course, you don’t know how.” Bakura’s mouth opened to protest, but before he could, Marik added, “no don’t worry, I remember: ‘more important things,’ all that shit,” paraphrasing Bakura’s go-to excuse for not knowing most things. “You have time now, asshat, and that’s my point. It’s easy, put your hand on my shoulder, look at my feet, and just follow me.”

Begrudgingly, Bakura obliged, trying to ignore how stupid he felt for engaging Marik when all he wanted to do was leave. Marik chuckled at Bakura’s misguided sense of rhythm, but he eventually picked up the general pattern. He lifted his eyes, once again realising just how close Marik was. His cheeks grew hot when he saw how intently Marik had been watching him, and felt both his stomach and feet twist uncomfortably.

“Jeez,” Marik laughed again as he helped Bakura right himself from the stumble. “You were doing pretty well up until then though.”

“Shut up,” Bakura snapped, “why are we even doing this, anyway?”

Marik shrugged. “It’s what you do at fancy parties. It’s customary.”

“You’ve never struck me as the kind to follow custom, Marik.”

A tired sort of smile played across Marik’s face as it softened, eyes becoming half-lidded as the late hour began to reflect in his demeanour. “People change, Bakura. I’m not the same person as I was in Battle City.”

“Bullshit. People never change. You’re all as greedy as you were thousands of years ago, and you of all people are no exception, Marik.”

“Don’t forget that you’re one of those humans too.”

Bakura rolled his eyes. “And have I changed at all?”

“You haven’t tried to kill anyone in the past two months,” Marik laughed.

“Why would I? There’s no point.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“That doesn’t prove anything—”

“Bakura,” Marik interrupted, “are you familiar with the process of cellular reproduction?”

“Cellu-what?”

“It’s biology.” Marik stated.

“Where would I have learned about that?”

Marik shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe in one of Ryou’s classes.”

“My host never went to school, and even if he did why would I bother to pay attention? I had—”

Marik cocked an eyebrow. “More important—”

“Shut up.”

“You can just say no, you know? You don’t need to be so stubborn.” The music’s tempo changed, and Marik’s steps with it. Once more, Bakura found himself faltering out of sync with him. Marik seemed to notice this, and gripped him tighter, as though expecting him to trip again. Bakura nearly did because of it. “It’s three steps now, not four. Look at my feet again.”

Bakura did, thankful that he’d get a moment to hide his reddening face and regain some composure. He caught the rhythm more quickly this time—a small victory, but one nonetheless. He looked back to Marik. “So what is this cell-whatever-thing?” he asked, repressing a small shiver as he felt Marik adjust his hands yet again, and he could _swear_ that Marik was pulling him just another bit closer.

“Cellular reproduction,” Marik continued, “So our bodies are made up of these tiny little living things called cells. Each cell has its own function, and their own structure, like how skin cells are different than muscle cells, because they serve a different purpose. Are you following me so far?”

“So cells are…” Bakura furrowed his brow, willing his brain to focus on the task at hand. It was far too late for this type of mental acrobatics, with the soft music, and the warm lights, and the smell of Marik’s cologne all swirling in his mind and clouding his thoughts. “… they’re like… little bugs… on my skin… or…”

Marik chuckled. “Well, sort of, but they’re not _on_ your skin, they _are_ your skin. Think about it like… like a brick wall: your body is the wall, and the cells are the bricks that make it up.”

Bakura nodded, although he still had a hard time imagining the tiny bugs building a wall together. “Okay, so what about them?”

“Well, after a certain amount of time, individual cells in our bodies die, and other cells take their place. They say that after seven years, our body’s made up of entirely new cells. You’re an entirely new person, made up of brand new things.” Marik’s voice grew quieter in his next words, losing the clinical tone it had carried before. “Listen, Bakura, you and I have been through a lot of shit, more than anyone else in this room—Hell, more than most people will ever go through in their whole life—and it fucked us up, it shaped us. But you can’t keep holding on to what’s gone. There’s no more Pharaoh to defeat, no more family to free, and no more revenge to be had. They’re gone. We might still look like the same people, but we’re not. We can’t be. You can’t stop change, Bakura. You can’t cling to the parts of you that aren’t there anymore.” Marik sighed. “You need to accept that, and move on.”

The music changed once again, back to the first pattern, and Bakura used that as an excuse to look away, watching their steps again. Of course, Bakura knew what Marik was saying was right: he couldn’t keep seeking revenge against someone who was gone. But revenge was all Bakura had known for his entire life. It had been what motivated him, what _defined_ him, for so long. How was he meant to let all that go?

He looked back to Marik. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he replied frankly.

Marik smiled. “Then we’re going to figure that out.”

Once again, Bakura was at a loss for words. Quick-witted as he was, he wasn’t used to this sort of sentimental bullshit. He diverted, trying to play to his strengths. “ _You’re_ helping _me_ now? I guess you really have changed, Marik.”

Marik’s smile stretched into a grin. “Glad to hear you admit it.”

“How do you know all that science shit anyway?”

“I read.”

“Nerd.”

“This, coming from you?” Marik pulled just a touch closer, forcing Bakura to try and adjust his arm as it folded uncomfortably in. Instead of moving back, Marik simply took Bakura’s elbow and slung the arm over his shoulder, sliding his own arm across Bakura’s lower back and resting it on his opposite hip. Bakura’s eyes widened at the sudden adjustment. His body tensed and his heart fluttered and he hoped to all the gods that Marik couldn’t feel it against his own ribcage, now pressed flush against Bakura’s. Marik’s expression, once again, failed to register anything out of the ordinary. _Did he still not realise how weird this was?_

“Marik..?” Bakura started. _What the fuck are you doing?!_ Was what he meant to ask, but before he could, Marik spoke again.

“Back down in the tomb, all I ever did was read. Father didn’t want me playing—that wasn’t _proper_ for someone who was to guard the Pharaoh’s secrets.” Marik’s words grew sharp, as they often did at the mention of the pharaoh. Subconsciously, Bakura leaned closer, for Marik’s voice had drawn itself to less than a hiss. “How sad is that? A tombkeeper is expected to waste away underground, reading dusty old scripts about the Pharaohs who didn’t give a damn how many more of us would die waiting to pass along their secrets. I hated it. Every line I would read would just remind me of why I was going to die down there, and how I was never going to see the outside…” He trailed off, trying to remember why he was telling Bakura all of this in the first place. “But anyways, when we left the tomb, it was like I was in this whole new world, and I didn’t know the first thing about it. My first night out of the tomb, I couldn’t sleep. I remember just looking at the stars in the night sky, trying to count them, trying to figure out where they were and how they got there. As soon as he could, Rishid bought me a book about stars, and I fell in love with reading for the first time. I read about space, and about the earth, and about different cultures, and art, and languages, and… and I’m getting off topic. A few years back, I picked up a book about biology, and that’s where I learned about cellular reproduction.”

Bakura blinked, hardly knowing where to go from there. Marik hardly ever spoke about his time in the tomb. Even on the rare occasion that he did, he always closed off when he was asked anything further, and Bakura had no reason to believe that tonight would be any different. The silence between them grew awkward, as it often did in these times, when any other friend would be looking to console. Bakura didn’t know how to console, and he figured that maybe that was why Marik would confide in him. Marik wasn’t looking for pity, he was looking for understanding. Bakura could definitely offer that. And sometimes, he’d look for a change in subject. Bakura could offer that too.

“So… how come I can’t see my cells, if I’m made up of them?” Bakura knew it was a stupid question, but his mind was still too stirred to come up with a better one.

Marik gave him a soft smile. “Our cells are too small to see without equipment. You’d need a microscope to see them.”

Bakura lowered his voice to a murmur, as though this information was only for him and Marik to share. “If we’re made up of cells, then what are cells made up of?”

“Organelles. They’re like the guts of the cell.”

“What are those made out of?”

Marik gave this a moment of thought, taking the time to rest his chin on Bakura’s shoulder. Bakura’s chest tightened when Marik spoke, nearly right into his ear, “Molecules would be next, I think. That’s the stuff elements are made of, like oxygen and hydrogen, which make up water.”

Bakura closed his eyes, resting his own head on Marik’s shoulder. “After that?”

“Atoms, which is what everything is made up of.”

“There’s nothing after atoms?”

“No, there is. There are subatomic particles, and then quarks after that. Some people believe it goes further down, but there’s no proof past there.” There was a moment of silence between them, before Marik spoke again, “Hey, Bakura?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you want to talk to me?”

Bakura’s eyes went wide, as the weight of reality began to sink back in. He’d pulled Marik aside—he remembered that—but _what for?_ “I… uh…” he stammered.

“Marik!” Bakura heard a voice exclaim somewhere over his shoulder. In a second, Marik had slipped out of their embrace, leaving Bakura alone on the dance floor. The sensation was in stark contrast to the dreamlike warmth he’d felt mere moments prior, as though he’d been doused in cold water. Bakura spun around, spotting Marik a few paces away and in conversation with the museum’s director. Bakura walked up to them, watching Marik’s frame stiffen as the older man clapped him over the shoulder.

“Director,” Bakura acknowledged, and the man’s smile grew.

“Bakura! It’s good to see you, son.” He dropped the hand resting on Marik’s shoulder, taking one of Bakura’s in both and shaking firmly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Marik will himself to relax. “Been enjoying the night?”

Once his hand was released, Bakura crossed his arms, reluctantly engaging in the small talk. “Food was good.”

“And the dancing?”

He winced. _Had people seen that?_ “Sure.”

“He’s a fast learner,” Marik spoke up, “when he’s not too stubborn to listen.”

“I see. Well I won’t keep the both of you too long, then. I was just wondering if you had given any thought to my proposition, Marik.”

Marik shifted on his feet, but his face betrayed no discomfort. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Clearly, I’ll have to talk to my brother and sister, before we make any sort of decision.”

He nodded. “Perfectly understandable. Let me know what they say, and we can start planning the expedition.” With one last smile, he turned and waved over his shoulder, walking away.

Bakura looked back to Marik. “Expedition?”

Marik idly watched the room, averting Bakura’s gaze. “He wants to go down to the tomb.”

“Your tomb?”

Marik scoffed. “Not mine, _the Pharaoh’s_.”

Bakura smirked. For as much as he claimed to have changed, Bakura knew that some parts of Marik would always be Marik. “What are you going there for?”

“They want scrolls and shit, whatever’s still there.” He sighed, “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to act more friendly to him. He’s supposed to be your father now, isn’t he?”

Bakura rolled his eyes. “Only on paper, and don’t act like he’s been fucking dad of the year, to me or to my host.”

“I’d say he’s been pretty nice to you, considering how many times you’ve almost killed his actual son.” He glanced back at Bakura. “It’s late, let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello AO3! Like I said before, this was originally written as an answer to an ask I got on Tumblr (my URL is noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com btw, if u wanna follow me lmao.) Although this site has a different setup than Tumblr, clearly, I wanted to keep the content as it was posted there, because I didn't want to give up any relevant context.
> 
> This fic takes place in my personal post-canon timeline. If you want more information on what that timeline is, feel free to browse my Tumblr writing tag (noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/tagged/squelette-writes/) There are also a few headcanons I've spoken about before that made appearances in this oneshot, which can also be found in my writing tag.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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